A Wing and a Prayer: The Devil You Know, #3

By Christine Pope

His life has gone to hell. Now his heart is about to go to the dogs.

Beelzebub has the perfect job: manager-in-chief of Hell…until the number of condemned souls nosedives, and God slaps an "Out of Business" sign on the Fiery Gates. Now Beelzebub is just a laid-off demon banished to live out a mortal life in his idea of perdition: Los Angeles. Complete with nosy neighbors and a yappy, pint-sized dog that won't stay off his lawn.

Jillian Torres is finally free of one hellish relationship and has no interest in going down that road again. So what if her best friend reports that their new neighbor is super-smoking-hot? Jillian's hands are too full running a Chihuahua rescue to notice or care…until Rufus, one of her escape-artist rescue dogs, makes a beeline for the man's yard.

Three things hit her immediately when she meets Benjamin Blake. He's definitely super-hot. His grumpy attitude doesn't quite hide the sadness in his smoky hazel eyes. And Rufus adores him. Thus begins Jillian's subversive quest to win Ben's heart — for Rufus. But along the way, Ben and Jillian find everything they never thought they wanted.

Note: This third book in The Devil You Know trilogy is a standalone romance with no cliffhanger. Contains a fresh-off-the-River-Styx-boat demon, a rescue-minded woman, a single-minded chihuahua, a crime anyone with a soul would commit, and puppies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Valentine Press
• Release date: Feb 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393678090

Christine Pope

A native of Southern California, Christine Pope has been writing stories ever since she commandeered her family’s Smith-Corona typewriter back in grade school and is currently working on her hundredth book.Christine writes as the mood takes her, and so her work includes paranormal romance, paranormal cozy mysteries, and fantasy romance. She blames this on being easily distracted by bright, shiny objects, which could also account for the size of her shoe collection. While researching the Djinn Wars series, she fell in love with the Land of Enchantment and now makes her home in New Mexico.

Book preview

Prologue

Beelzebub looked over that day’s list of new prisoners and found himself frowning. True, the numbers of damned souls admitted to Hell had been dropping over the past few weeks, but he’d attributed the reduction in volume to those ridiculous New Year’s resolutions that humans seemed so fond of making. Everyone would have been on their best behavior during the month of January, but now that February had rolled around topside in the mortal world, he’d assumed that all the sinners and miscreants would have gone back to their usual lying, cheating, stealing, and so on.

Only…that didn’t seem to be what was happening at all. This latest list had a paltry thousand souls on it. What in the world was he supposed to do with that? He glared at Belial, the demon who’d been working as his aide de camp ever since Asmodeus had, well, decamped.

This is it? Beelzebub demanded.

Yes, Belial replied, looking remarkably unperturbed, blue eyes with their usual cheerful glint, a faint smile on a mouth framed by that ridiculous beard he’d grown over the past year or so. Then again, it seemed to take a good deal to upset Belial. Beelzebub had often wondered how someone with such a sunny personality had ended up in Hell, but he’d realized long ago that there were some mysteries which could never be fully explained. I can double-check, if you like, the demon added, obviously trying to be helpful.

Not that there was any point. The list was the list; it always appeared at the beginning of the day — or what passed for day down here — on the desk of Lucifer’s lieutenant, and was never altered or updated. Once upon a time, Beelzebub had been the Devil’s assistant, but Lucifer had forsaken Hell in order to live a mortal life with the utterly unmemorable woman God had chosen for him, and so Beelzebub had taken over. He’d hoped that Asmodeus would occupy the position Belial currently held, but their fellow demon had turned out to be a traitor to their kind as well. At the rate they were going, soon there wouldn’t be enough demons left to staff the place.

No, Beelzebub said shortly. That will be all.

Belial didn’t bother to reply, only shot a grin of irritating good cheer in his superior’s direction and strode out of the room. Scowling, Beelzebub stared down at the meager list he’d been given and wondered why he bothered.

Ahem.

Beelzebub looked up from the enormous polished basalt desk where he sat — it had once belonged to Lucifer, but had come to Beelzebub along with all the other trappings of the office — and saw an elderly man in a shabby brown tweed coat standing a few paces away, gazing at him with mildly curious dark eyes.

Well, He looked like a regular old man. However, Beelzebub knew He was Someone far, far more important.

He was also the last person Beelzebub would have expected to find standing in his study.

Yes? he said, making no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice. Truth be told, Beelzebub lived in a state of constant annoyance, and of course, God knew that just as well as anyone else.

Working hard, I see.

Someone has to, Beelzebub growled. With Lucifer gone and Beelzebub’s former partner-in-crime, Asmodeus, also settled down in apparent mortal bliss with a human woman in his bed, he was the only one left to keep Hell running. Well, the only one of any importance. Belial was supposedly a prince of Hell like the other upper-level demons, but he had never seemed like one, what with his foolish grins and no problem attitude. Still frowning, he added, What do you want? I’m busy.

If anyone had been around to listen to this particular conversation, they might have been shocked to hear a demon address the Creator in such an impudent way. But since Beelzebub knew God most likely wouldn’t retaliate, he felt it safe enough to give free rein to his feelings, which as usual, were sour as curdled milk.

As he’d thought, God only smiled. Well, I thought I should come down here and give you the news myself.

‘News’? Beelzebub repeated. He didn’t much like the sound of that. News meant change, and he hated change. He wanted everything to continue as it had for the past few millennia. Or at least, continue in a way that didn’t disturb his world too much. With both Lucifer and Asmodeus gone, Hell would never be precisely what it once was, but he had to hope it wouldn’t suffer any more catastrophic alterations, either.

God inspected the sleeve of His brown tweed jacket. Possibly looking for lint, although Beelzebub couldn’t detect anything amiss, nothing that would require such a level of close scrutiny. Looking up, the Creator went on, I’ve decided to close Hell.

For a few seconds, the words didn’t quite register. Beelzebub sat at his desk, the piece of parchment with that day’s list of the damned still clutched in his fingers, as God’s pronouncement slowly penetrated his thoughts. What?

Oh, you heard me. I’ve decided to close Hell. God paused then, smiling slightly. Some people might have called that smile beatific, but its utter serenity only made Beelzebub want to grind his teeth in fury. Lately, Hell has been serving as less and less of a deterrent to prevent people from acting badly. So, I’ve decided to shut the place down and move to a reincarnation model. Maybe putting some of the worst offenders through the spin cycle a thousand times or so will be enough to get them to see the light. So to speak.

Beelzebub could only stare at God, aghast. This couldn’t be happening. How could there not be a Hell? Wasn’t that the whole point, after all? To have the universe suspended between those two poles, to have utter light on one side and utter darkness on the other? How could God expect people to understand the perfection of Heaven if they didn’t have the blackness of Hell to balance it out?

You’re closing Hell, he said, his tone flat.

Yes, that’s what I said. God paused there and sent Beelzebub a searching glance, concern clear in His brown eyes under the gray-frosted brows that framed them. Are you quite all right, my boy? You look a little pale.

Voice a rasp, Beelzebub said, I’m fine.

A pause as God appeared to consider that response. His eyebrows drew together, as though He knew the demon who sat before Him was lying.

Well, of course, He would know Beelzebub was lying. The Creator knew everything, after all.

That didn’t mean Beelzebub intended to tell Him that he currently felt as if an entire legion of Roman chariots had just backed over him approximately ten thousand times. His head spun slightly, and he knew if he hadn’t had the heavy stone desk to support his hands where they lay on its surface, they would have been shaking like aspen leaves in the first winds of autumn.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, He went on, No need to worry, Beelzebub. I’m not going to leave you high and dry.

How kind.

The Creator’s mouth quirked a little at one corner, but He only said, I won’t offer you precisely the same deal I gave Lucifer and Asmodeus, mostly because I know you wouldn’t accept it. You don’t have much use for true love, do you, Beelzebub?

That truth was so patently obvious, he didn’t bother to reply, only stared back at God, hoping his face was as blank and unreadable as the stone surface beneath his fingertips.

Still, He continued, I can’t have you staying here. The souls currently in Hell will be given their new assignments soon and sent back to Earth to relive their lives and see if they won’t make such a hash of it the second time around. The other demons will be allowed their retirements, so to speak. In only a week or so, this place will be empty. And then…I will end it.

All this, gone? The great dark palace where Lucifer once dwelled and which Beelzebub now called his home? The vast pits where the souls of those damned here for eternity spent their painful, endless days? No more cold winds, no more scent of brimstone and smoke on the air?

In short, nothing that had made his existence here remotely bearable would be left.

No point in protesting; Beelzebub could tell that God’s mind was made up. Neither did he question whether the Creator was capable of an act of such magnitude. After all, He had made Hell in the first place. He need only snap His fingers to unmake it. And any being capricious enough to wipe out all His Creation in a flood of, well, biblical proportions wasn’t going to scruple at getting rid of a place like Hell if He’d decided it had served its purpose.

Somehow, Beelzebub managed to find his voice. If I’m not to remain here, then where am I supposed to go?

God’s brown eyes twinkled, and a small finger of dread traced its way down Beelzebub’s spine. When He looked that cheerful, it usually meant He had devised a plan that sounded wonderful to Him but would strike fear into any demon’s heart.

Well, He said, I thought it would be easier if I had the three of you in the same place — that makes it easier for Me to keep an eye on you.

No, he wouldn’t….

Not there, Beelzebub said. Damn it, that comment had sounded just a bit too much like a whimper. He cleared his throat. Anywhere else. Siberia. The Sahara Desert. The Australian outback. Antarctica.

God shook His head, eyes still twinkling. Oh, you know I wouldn’t put you anywhere so inhospitable. But don’t worry — you’ll have a nice house, something to your taste. And disposable income, because you’ve earned your retirement, Beelzebub. A pause, and He added, looking positively gleeful, Or should I say, Benjamin Blake? That’s the name you used when you were last on Earth, wasn’t it?

Only as a matter of convenience, Beelzebub responded. The conversation was already slipping away from him, but he thought he needed to do what he could to maintain some semblance of control. I’m not sure —

Benjamin Blake it is, God cut in. The words had such a tone of finality to them, Beelzebub knew there was no point in arguing, despite the nervous dread that currently gripped his stomach. It suits you. And of course, I’ll make sure you have all the necessary documentation — driver’s license and Social Security card, birth certificate, vaccine records, medical history —

Please, stop, Beelzebub said, his voice strangled. Just the mere notion that he was about to be weighed down with all the trappings of a mortal life made him feel as though he was slowly asphyxiating.

God paused there, and sent the demon a look of concern. Not true worry, though; Beelzebub could tell He was enjoying this far too much. I just wanted you to know that you will be taken care of. After all, I want you to have a smooth transition to your new life in —

Don’t say it, Beelzebub interrupted. Anything to keep the Creator from uttering those fateful syllables.

— Los Angeles, God went on inexorably. What better place for a former demon than the City of Angels?

Oh, God, Beelzebub moaned.

He might live for another eternity, but, as far as he was concerned, his life was over.

What the hell was he supposed to do in L.A.?

Chapter One

Naomi Klein, my next-door neighbor, sailed in through the back door of my kitchen and announced dramatically, "Have you seen our new neighbor?"

Since I was in the middle of making a fresh batch of the homemade miniature dog biscuits I whipped up on a regular basis for Frida, my two-year-old rescue chihuahua — and any other rescues who might be passing through at the time — I barely looked up from the bite-size bits of dough I was laying out on a cookie sheet. Well, since I haven’t gone outside in the past hour, I guess I’ll have to say no.

Eminently bangable, was Naomi’s evaluation as she headed over to the fridge and got out the pitcher of sun tea I always kept in there…which, of course, was why she knew to get herself some. Brown eyes sparkling, she added, "Super cute. The universe has dropped a live one in your lap, Jillian."

No one’s in my lap, I said, somewhat wearily. I loved Naomi and was very glad to have her as a next-door neighbor, but I really wished she would stop trying to get me to date. Yes, almost a year had passed since my divorce was final, and yet I knew I just wasn’t ready to get back out there. Honestly, I didn’t know if I ever would be, and that was fine by me. Little Angels Chihuahua Rescue — my nonprofit organization that focused on fostering and finding homes for abandoned chihuahuas and chi mixes — took up pretty much all of my time. I recalled how demanding Tom, my ex, had been and guessed that most men probably wouldn’t be too different, once they got comfortable enough to show me their true selves. Anyway, I went on, since Naomi was eyeing me, clearly expecting me to say something else, if he’s so hot, you can have him.

Can’t, she said. I’m only five days into my ninety-day man cleanse. What would I say to my viewers if I gave in to temptation less than a week into my detox?

Naomi was a highly successful YouTube lifestyle guru and personality. She’d converted one of the rooms in the big Victorian house next to mine into a studio and interview space, and I was honestly kind of shocked at the celebrities she was able to lure in there for one-on-one talks. And honestly, although I still couldn’t say I precisely understood how a YouTube celebrity could earn a salary in the low seven figures, obviously Naomi knew what she was doing.

So, while her comment about her viewers might have seemed self-centered, I knew it was only the truth. They looked up to her, absorbed her advice without question — or at least, not too much questioning — and if she was in the middle of a man cleanse, then the last thing she should be doing was chasing after our new neighbor. I’d known someone would be moving in soon, just because the for sale sign on the house across the street had come down only a week earlier. However, since the two houses faced each other, I’d been able to catch glimpses of prospective buyers during the two months it had been for sale, and I knew I’d never seen anyone I would have referred to as eminently bangable.

Come on, she urged me. He was out in the yard, inspecting the flowerbeds. In a suit, no less. And a bow tie. Who the hell wears a bow tie these days?

And yet he’s still bangable? I asked, my mouth curling into a grin despite myself.

Yes, which should tell you something about his looks. Let’s go take a peek through the living room curtains — those dog biscuits can wait.

Since I’d forgotten to turn on the oven at the appropriate time and it was still preheating, I supposed that technically, Naomi was right. Still, it felt kind of silly to be peering past my living room drapes like a couple of gossips out of a 1950s sitcom or something. But since I could tell from my friend’s expression that she was going to keep bugging me until I capitulated, I shrugged, went and ran my hands under the kitchen tap to get them clean, and then headed out to the living room.

Back when my house was constructed in the late 1890s, the living room had probably been called the parlor. Like all the other houses on Carroll Avenue — a famous street in L.A.’s fabled Angelino Heights — it had been built more than a hundred years earlier, a large Queen Anne–style Victorian with a five-color paint scheme, shades of blue accented with dark brick red and white. Not the kind of place that someone who managed a small, independent dog rescue operation should have been able to afford, but undisputed ownership of the house was the price my ex-husband had paid for this philandering. Cheating was no good, but when you were a high-priced lawyer having an affair with one of your clients, well, a million-dollar-plus house was a small price to pay to avoid getting disbarred.

I followed Naomi to the front window, which looked out on Carroll Avenue. Even in early February, the yards were all green, although most people’s roses had been recently cut back and therefore weren’t very showy. Even so, everything looked picture perfect, like something right out of a movie set — which made sense, since a lot of TV shows and movies had been filmed there. In fact, the house from the original Charmed television show was just down the road.

But there he was, standing in front of one of the flowerbeds in the house opposite mine, something of a similar vintage and style, only painted in shades of gray with dark green accents. My new neighbor had his hands shoved in his pants pockets and appeared to be scowling down at the close-pruned roses in the brick-encircled bed in front of him.

A plaid suit? I said, casting a skeptical glance at Naomi, who was hovering right behind me. He’s got to be gay.

I don’t think so, she replied, brown eyes wide with interest, full mouth under its coating of pinkish nude lip gloss quirking slightly. My gay-dar is usually infallible. I don’t get that vibe from him at all.

About all I could do was raise an eyebrow. True, Naomi tended to have great instincts when it came to that sort of thing, but no one could bat a thousand all the time. And honestly, I couldn’t imagine a straight guy wearing that suit — or the dark red bow tie that circled his neck.

However, I had to admit to myself that the new neighbor was damn good-looking. Tall, and with an athletic build that filled out the plaid suit he wore and kept it from appearing utterly ridiculous. Thick brown hair and regular features just this side of man-pretty. From that distance, I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were. Not that it really mattered. I didn’t have any plans to get close enough to find out for myself.

Okay, he’s cute, I allowed, and then stepped away from the window. It’s weird, though — I didn’t see a moving truck.

She allowed herself one last glance at the new neighbor and turned toward me. Oh, they came while you were out picking up that dog from Mount Washington.

That dog was Rufus, my latest rescue. I could already tell he was going to be a handful — he was feisty and wanted to act as though he ruled the roost, even though my own dog Frida had let him know, with a couple of not-so-uncertain growls, that this was her house and while she might tolerate visitors, no way was a new dog going to come in here and behave as though he was the one in charge. Anyway, Mount Washington was only about twenty minutes from my place, and the entire trip had taken me less than an hour, even factoring in coming and going and chatting for a bit with Myra Lopez, the gal who had found Rufus wandering her street and who’d called me to come get him.

They unloaded an entire houseful of furniture in less than an hour? I asked, knowing how skeptical I sounded.

Yep, Naomi replied. It was actually kind of amazing. A big commercial moving truck pulled up, followed by a van. There was a crew of six guys in the van, and they came out and met up with the two guys in the truck, and the whole gang of them moved everything from the truck to the house in record time. Nice stuff, too — expensive antiques, from what I could tell.

Which was exactly the kind of furniture you’d want for a home like one of ours. Inwardly, I found myself already approving of this new neighbor, simply because I thought if you were going to live in a vintage house, then you should have vintage furniture to go along with it. Not that I had anything against more modern styles, but there were plenty of modern homes in L.A. I didn’t see the point in filling a Victorian house with mid-century furniture, any more than I’d want someone decorating a brand-new glass and steel house with antiques.

Obviously, if he could afford a house on this street and the kind of furniture Naomi was describing — not to mention a team of eight people to unload everything and put it away — then our new neighbor must have been doing okay for himself. I didn’t recognize him, so I didn’t think he was an actor, although I supposed he could have been; I didn’t have enough time to watch most of the shows currently on the air and wasn’t all that familiar with who was starring in what. Or maybe he was a designer of some kind…the suit was the sort of eccentricity that might be forgiven in design circles.

Not that it really mattered. The guy had moved in across the street from me, and so I guessed we’d wave and say hi from time to time, but I doubted our interactions would extend much beyond those surface pleasantries.

And he only looks like he’s a year or two older than you, Naomi went on. Early thirties at the most. So, I think it’s just about perfect.

I have no plans to date anyone, least of all our new neighbor, I told her. Just think how messy it would be if we did end up going out and then broke up later. Awkward.

You need to stop jumping to the worst conclusions, Jillian, she said. Now she sounded brisk, as though she was talking to her YouTube audience and not someone in the room with her. Maybe it would all turn out great.

I kind of doubt it.

That exchange was all we had time for, because some yaps and growls coming from the family room told me that Rufus had woken up from his nap and decided to encroach on Frida’s territory once again. Murmuring an apology to Naomi, I hurried over to the source of the commotion and picked up Rufus. He squirmed in my arms but obviously knew better than to try to nip at me. Down on the floor, Frida shot me a narrow glance, as if to tell me that while she understood that I had to take in these lost souls from time to time, she wished I’d do better at keeping them away when it was time for her all-important afternoon beauty sleep.

It was too early to take the dogs for a walk — I tried to head out around four every day unless I had an appointment or the weather was too hot — but the backyard had been thoroughly chihuahua-proofed, and so I knew it would be safe to send Rufus out there to cool his heels until it was time for that afternoon’s constitutional. I took him over to the back door and let him out, and although he shot me a reproachful glance, he trotted down the steps cheerfully enough and off toward one of the lilies of the Nile that bordered the lawn so he could lift his leg and pee.

Although I could tell from the look on Naomi’s face that she wanted to continue our conversation about the new neighbor, she must have glimpsed something in my expression that told her to back off, because she said breezily, Well, I need to get back. I’ve got Elizabeth Gilbert dropping in tomorrow and need to get the studio squared away.

Oh, that’s all? I responded. I’m surprised you don’t have Ryan Gosling or Emma Stone lined up.

Next week, she twinkled, and let herself out. There was actually a gate that connected our two properties, and so she tended to come and go through the kitchen and the backyard, rather than walking in formally from the front of the house.

I reflected it was a good thing that we’d turned out to be close friends, or the gate could have been problematic. Once upon a time, when our respective houses were built, they’d been owned by a wealthy man and his adult son, and so I supposed the parties involved had wanted to have an easy way to get back and forth between the adjoining properties. When Tom and I were shopping for houses, the real estate agent had been almost apologetic about the gate, saying that we could probably replace that part of the fence if we wanted to, although she hoped we wouldn’t, since doing so would alter something